


We Will Go Together, Over the Waters of Time

by lahijadelmar



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 13:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15001802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lahijadelmar/pseuds/lahijadelmar
Summary: Poirot suffers from flashback nightmares of the atrocities in Belgium. Hastings offers comfort and certain truths come to light.





	We Will Go Together, Over the Waters of Time

**Author's Note:**

> I don't pretend to be an expert in Poirot canon as I've only recently been devouring the TV series with Suchet and Fraser. I know only for sure that Poirot and Hastings are in love, that I sincerely enjoy the poignant responses from Poirot when Belgium's dark history is mentioned (and perhaps even more so Hastings' knowing, concerned reactions). This idea occurred to me and as I really wanted to write SOMETHING for this pairing- ta da.

It began this way, with a cry in the dark. He remembered keenly, the sound rattling and waking him from sound sleep in the guestroom, bringing him rushing without any hesitation to Poirot’s side. As a soldier, Hastings knew the sound well and knew better than to fear assault or a murderer in the shadows or some such thing but, perhaps, something far worse, a mental burden that followed one’s every step. 

 

He climbed into bed the first time, gently rousing him and taking him into his arms. Poirot clung to him and sobbed and Hastings asked no questions. Despite falling asleep there, cradling one another, neither of them spoke of it the next morning. This continued on at a bit of a stutter; they’d go days, weeks, even months with nothing and then, without warning, he’d inevitably hear the shriek in the dark and come running again.

 

The initial arrangement was that Hastings would remain rooming at Whitehaven Mansions until he got his finances in order but due to this sudden need he (gladly) began to fill, he didn’t feel any special urgency. Poirot didn’t seem particularly keen on his leaving either, something he wouldn’t have hesitated to suggest at every available opportunity if it was at all a concern. Hastings assisted with rent and utilities as he could and, anyway, it just made a certain logical sense; he’d only ever used his own flats for sleeping and spent most all of his days, meals at Whitehaven Mansions anyhow. That they hadn’t done this before seemed silly. 

 

Granted, there were those who whispered rather unfavorable about two confirmed bachelors that chose to live together, particularly at their age. Hastings wouldn’t have cared if it were any other friend- after all,  _ he _ knew there was nothing more to their dynamic than what appeared on the surface. The fact that his feelings for Poirot went a bit deeper, however, made for something of an evident guilty conscience whenever these rumors were brought to his doorstep. He told himself he wasn’t taking advantage, but he couldn’t help but wonder. 

 

It began to gnaw on him in the worst way. The next time he came to Poirot’s side, he made to leave after the initial fit had calmed. 

 

But Poirot grabbed for his arm. 

 

“Why do you leave me…?” he asked, almost helpless. Hastings felt his heart render like butter near an open flame, but morality called to him. 

 

“I...I don’t think I should stay this time, old thing. I don’t believe it is the  _ honest _ choice...under the given circumstances.” 

 

Poirot seemed as baffled as he did concerned. Hastings knew better than to think his friend would let a mystery this compelling walk out of his room without endeavoring to solve it. 

 

“And what circumstances are those, s'il te plaît?”

 

Hastings knew in his heart he owed his dearest friend an explanation, but in the thick of the moment it was  _ so difficult _ to convey.

 

“Please. Don’t ask this of me. Please accept that I  _ must _ do.” 

 

For the first time he couldn’t look Poirot in the eye; for the first time he couldn’t be candid. It was a horrible feeling and he was secretly grateful that Poirot pushed, sitting up and gently guiding Hastings’ gaze back to him with a delicate hand on his jaw. 

 

“You do not trust me?” Poirot asked, more rhetorical than anything. “Have I ever given you reason to believe I would  _ not _ understand?” 

 

Hastings wanted to explain it wasn’t his lack of faith in Poirot so much as it was not wanting to make this a shared burden on top of everything. He wanted only to be there for his most beloved friend as he needed him, without any sense of expectation beyond that. 

 

But he owed Poirot the truth; that much was unavoidable. Thus, he conveyed the true depth of his feelings, how long it had persisted, and his subsequent conclusion that allowing himself to lay in Poirot’s bed (even under the pretense of comfort) was dishonest and unfair. 

 

“People talk, as we  _ both _ know,” Hastings lamented. “It has been so hard to live with, feeling as if I’ve made a liar out of the both of us.” 

 

But Poirot only smiled. 

 

“ _ That _ is a lie to which I would gladly be the complicit.” 

 

And if there was any room for confusion in this answer (as, of course, there was) Poirot dispelled it with a soft kiss to Hastings’ lips that was decidedly not platonic, nor even that innocent. 

 

“...I  _ say _ .” Was all Hastings could think to reply with. 

 

It was due to this truth coming to light that the comfort Hastings could offer evolved.They shared a bed henceforth (it was only logical) and gradually began clinging to each other in a different way when they felt it necessary. Oh, they made love plenty without the need for desperation in the dark, but there were times when Poirot’s great hunger for physical comfort in these moments became Hastings’ lips on his neck, holding him close as he worked him to completion with his hand. 

 

Whispers in his ear of, “I’m here, my darling. My dearest love.” stoked the fires of love and comfort until Poirot was shattering beautifully in his grip.

 

Most of their lovemaking consisted of Poirot holding the reigns, something Hastings fully enjoyed and wouldn’t have any other way; but in these moments it was Poirot that would beg for Hastings to care for and make love to him. He would oblige most agreeably, entering him, holding him, moving slow and gentle or fast and hard as Poirot bid him. Again, they would exchange babbled, almost incoherent praises of affection as they both worked to their end; “Arthur, mon ange... continue comme ça... s'il te plaît, plus fort…! ”, “ _ Yes _ , my darling...everything for you...you are  _ heaven,  _ mon Hercule …” 

 

And they would come apart together as they became whole again. 


End file.
